They Say it's Your Birthday
by buffyaddict
Summary: This is a little oneshot I wrote for Sam's birthday. A look at some of his birthdays through the years, with spoilers up through FPB. Mildly angsty with a side of fluff.


A/N: this is a fic i wrote for sam's bday. it's the least angsty, most schmoopy thing i've ever written. it's also, quite possibly, the crappiest. it's not betaed and i wrote most if while i was sick and hopped up on medicine. but i'm posting it anyway because i love sam and it's his bday. and i'd rather offer sam crappy fanfic than none at all, so. read at your own risk. AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM! ;-P

I.

Dean makes Sam a cake for his fifth birthday. Okay, he doesn't really make it; it's more like he arranges five Hostess cupcakes on a plate, and spoons whipped cream on top and sticks in five candles. But Sam thinks it's the most amazing cake in the world. Sam doesn't want much for his birthday, just to watch a movie with Dean and Dad. Sam will sit all smooshed between Dad and Dean and everything will be perfect (_safe_) for a little while. But Dad's on a hunt and every time Sam looks at the clock, his face falls a little further.

They're staying with Bobby and he keeps telling Sam stupid knock-knock jokes. Sam doesn't want jokes; he wants his _Dad_. "Come on Sammy," Dean finally coaxes. "Why don't you come watch _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_ with me and Bobby. You love that movie." Sam doesn't want to, he just wants to go sit in his room by himself (and maybe one of Dean's comics) but he sits on the couch anyway. Dean brings him one of the cupcakes half way through the movie, but Sam's not hungry. How can he have a birthday without Daddy?

II.

When Sam is seven he wants a birthday party at the park with balloons, a piñata, the whole shebang. He ends up spending most of the night hitting home runs every time a poltergeist aims another flying object at his head. Once his swing is a second too slow and he ends up with a black eye. Dean tries to joke the tears away, tells him smashing stuff is way better than smashing some dumb-ass paper Mache filled with candy, but Sam doesn't buy it. He's pretty sure Dean doesn't either.

III.

Sam wants to spend his fourteenth birthday with Nathan. Nathan is the first real friend he's had in, well, since ever, really. And Sam's going to stay over at Nate's house. Sam can't tell Nate that what he loves best about his friend isn't his friend at all, it's his family. The _normalness_ that permeates Nate's house. Nate's mom is always nice to Sam, always smiles at him, and ruffles his hair. Nate rolls his eyes every time she asks about his day or brings a snack, but Sam can't get enough. This taste of a mother, this taste of _normal_ is amazing. He never wants it to end. He wants to move in with Nathan and leave the hunting behind. And yeah, he'll bring Dean along because he wants (_needs_) Dean to have a real home too. A real home would be the best. Present. Ever.

Three nights before Sam's birthday John tells him they're moving. There's a wendigo in Minnesota, up near Pastor Jim's and they've got to go. Sam tries everything: pleading, crying, threats, screaming, but John won't budge. Dean even tries to persuade John to stay a few more days--and Dean hardly ever contradicts John's orders--but it doesn't make a difference. Sam spends his birthday in the backseat of the Impala in self-imposed silence. He stares dully out the window as the distance between his life and normal widens.

IV.

On Sam's eighteenth birthday Dean picks him up from school. Dean's driving the Impala now and more than a few kids stare when Dean pulls up to the curb. The guys admire the car and the girls admire Dean. Sam slides in beside Dean and grins. It's just the two of them tonight and Sam's relieved. He's been butting heads with John for months now and he's sick of it. He's sick of the orders, sick of the sarcasm, sick of Dad's constant berating and bitching. He's obsessed with hunting and Sam doesn't understand why, because no matter how many things they kill, none of it means anything. None of it's going to bring Mom back.

There's a letter in Sam's duffel from Stanford and every time he thinks about it his stomach twists like a wet rag. He wants to tell Dean about the scholarship, about his future. About normal. But not yet. Sam will save that (_betrayal_) for later, right now he just wants to celebrate with Dean. So he does.

V.

Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed when Dean comes out of the bathroom. Dean runs a towel over his wet hair and does a double take at Sam. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Sam says. He's staring intently at a piece of lint on the floor. It's a black piece of fuzz and for some reason it reminds him of a bullet hole. He looks up at Dean and forces a smile. He doesn't want Dean to say it, he wants to go the whole day without a single mention of it, but the grin on Dean's face tells him it's already too late.

"How's the birthday girl?" Dean snarks.

Sam shoots him a bitch face, but his heart isn't in it. "Ha, ha," he says, "how long did it take you to come up with that little masterpiece?"

Dean throws the towel across the back of a chair and considers. "At least ten seconds," he grins.

Sam rubs his forehead. "Dude. Don't make a big deal out of today, okay? Just…don't."

The plea in Sam's voice comes through loud and clear, but Dean ignores it. Sam's had a crap-ass year—they both have—and he'll be damned if he's going to ignore Sammy's birthday just because Sam asks him too. Sam asks him lots of things and Dean's gotten pretty good at ignoring the ones he doesn't agree with, which, now that he thinks about it, are most of them. He can do the head nod and eye contact thing, but that doesn't mean he's listening. So he flips Sam's _Just…don't_ into the ignore column and seats himself next to Sam. "Who has time for touchy feel birthday crap when we've got a hunt?"

Sam eyes Dean with vaguely suspicious look. "Exactly."

"Besides, Bobby's waiting for us." Dean slaps Sam's knee once and reaches for his duffel. "And it's not like you're getting any younger."

"Hilarious," Sam huffs.

They're on the road by nine.

ooooo

Around noon they stop for gas and pick up cold sandwiches and coffee. Sam stands in the check out line and a newspaper catches his eye. The date on the front page reads May 2, 2007. The last time he had a birthday he didn't know it was hit fault his mom died. Or Jess. Last year at this time he had no idea the yellow-eyed demon had plans for him. He wishes he could go back in time to where it all started to go wrong. Back to the day he was born.

"Can I help you?"

A bored cashier is staring at him and Sam counts out the money. He pays the exact amount because he doesn't want to wait around for change.

ooooo

"I don't get why Bobby asked for our help," Sam says once they hit the South Dakota border. "I mean, how many times have we called him for help?"

"A couple," Dean admits.

"And how many times has he called us?" Sam persists.

Dean sighs. "I get your point, but I'm not about to turn him down, you know?"

"At least he's not going to make us go to jail," Sam mutters.

Dean glares but Sam doesn't notice. Dean hopes he can feel it though. "Dude. How many times did I say I was sorry? It worked out, right? We helped Deacon and that's what really matters. Besides, you're right about laying low. Bobby isn't exactly Yemen, but it's a start."

Sam shrugs listlessly. He isn't really mad at Dean about their last job. Maybe he's mad at himself for following such a dumb-ass plan in the first place. But there's no use kidding himself. If Dean wanted to dig to the middle of an earth with a plastic spoon--when he wasn't busy sticking them in Sam's mouth, that is--Sam would be there right along with him, digging. Dean's job was to protect Sam, Sam's job was to have Dean's back. So that meant no matter how stupid Dean was, Sam would stay with him. That's what brother's did. That's what family did. And if he really thought about it...wasn't that kind of...normal? Wasn't family supposed to stick together? _Unless one of them up and ran away like a coward_. Sam sighs and hunches in his seat. He reaches for his coffee and takes a sip. It's cold. Figures.

"Dude, what is wrong with you? You look lower than that grave we dug for that ghoul back in '97."

"Nothing."

"Out with it, birthday boy. Go ahead and be emo. I won't even bitch about it."

Sam rolls eyes toward Dean. "As hard as your charm is to resist, I'll pass."

"Come on," Dean stretches and slides his arm behind Sam's headrest. "Is it Madison? Because we've been over--"

Sam's eyes go cold and flat and Dean drops the subject like a hot rock. He plasters on a smile. "Okaaaay. Then what?"

"How many different ways can I say nothing is bugging me? Should I say it Latin? Would that get through to you?"

Dean shrugs. "Nah. Probably not."

"Could you just quit...prodding at me, Dean? I know you're worried about me and I appreciate it, but really. _Enough_".

Dean points a finger at Sam. "Ah-_ha_! Now you know how it feels when you pester me all damned day. _How are you feeling Dean? Did you dream about Dad, Dean? I'm sorry I asked you to kill me, Dean. Am I the best brother ever, Dean_?"

Sam punches Dean's arm. Hard. " Shut up. I do not sound like that."

"Yeah, well I beg to differ, little brother."

"When have I ever asked you if I'm the best brother ever?"

Dean puts on a wistful expression. "It's in the little things Sam, not so much in your words. It's in everything you do, all those puppy glances you throw at me." He moves his arm from behind Sam's seat and pats Sam's knee. Sam swats his hand away with more force than Dean feels is absolutely necessary. "Don't feel bad, man. I can understand it, really. I mean, I do realize the full extent of my awesomeness."

Sam lets his head fall back against the seat, eyes closed. "_Dean_."

"So it's obvious you aren't the best brother ever, because that would be _me_." Dean's eyes slide to Sam, bright with laughter. "But you are a damn good brother, Sammy. Which is saying a lot, considering how whiny and girly you are."

"Maybe you should tell me some more about this hunt before I accidentally punch you in the head ten or twenty times."

"What about it?"

"Why exactly does Bobby need our help?"

"I told you, man, you'll just have to ask Bobby."

"Yeah, well I'm asking you."

Dean casts a pointed look at his brother. "This right here? Is why Dad yelled at you all the time."

"Dean."

"What?"

"_Dean_."

"_What_?"

"Tell me the real reason we're going to see Bobby."

Dean call feel Sam's gaze burning holes in the side of his head. He pulls on another smile. "Dude, I told you..."

"I know what you told me. And you're a good liar, Dean. But not to me."

Dean licks his lips. "Bobby wants our help."

"With what?"

Dean turns toward his window and mutters something.

Sam leans foward, annoyed. "I can't hear you."

Dean scowls. "That's sort of the point."

Sam's eyes go wide. "Dean. Tell me this isn't some lame birthday thing you have planned."

Dean shrugs. "This isn't some lame birthday thing I have planned."

Sam pounds a fist on the dashboard. "Dean!"

Dean puts up a hand. "Dude, don't hurt my baby. She's got nothing to do with this."

"Okay, not only is your relationship with this car sick and wrong, you deliberately went behind my back. I specifically told you I didn't want to do anything for my birthday."

"Sure, you told me," Dean says, "but you didn't tell Bobby. This whole thing was his idea. And I thought it was a good idea. You could use a little pick me up. We both could."

Sam's still glaring. "Well this isn't it. I don't want to celebrate." He sighs heavily, turns away, long hair in his eyes. "There's nothing to celebrate."

"Okay, before when I said you were whiny and girly, this is what I was talking about. You gave me that mp3 player for my birthday, why can't I do something nice for you?"

"First of all, I got you the mp3 player so you'd realize there's something beyond twenty year old tapes of Led Zeppelin to listen to. Second, your birthday is--" Sam cuts of abruptly and picks intently at a thread on the knee of his jeans.

"My birthday is what?"

Sam answers by picking at the thread, his face tight.

"Because if you're going to say my birthday is full of puppies and rainbows and yours if fraught with emo tragedy I will pull this car over right now and smack you upside your shaggy head."

"Do you even know what_ fraught_ means?"

"Your birthday is not a big tragedy," Dean repeats, his tone softer this time.

"And yours isn't full of puppies you stupid jerk."

"Look, I'm not stupid, Sam. I'm not. I can read your thoughts from a mile away and I don't even have the shining. I know when you think about your birthday all you can see is the fire that killed Mom. And then knowing you, you think about Jess. And Ava and Max and Madison and God knows who else. Because you think every bad thing that happens in the world is your fault. I've got news for you Sam, it's not your fault."

Sam shakes his head, jaw working. "You don't know that."

"And neither do you."

Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Come on. A lot of people care about you, Sam." He offers his brother a crooked grin. "I can't quite figure out why, but they do. They want a chance to tell you. So let's go to Bobby's. Just for a while. If you can't stand it, we can say we've got someplace to be and leave."

Sam nods slowly. He tells himself this is yet another stupid Dean plan and he doesn't want to go along with it. But at least it's better than digging to the center of the earth with a plastic spoon. Or jail. He sighs. Dean loves him, and maybe Bobby does too. "Okay," he allows, and Dean keeps driving.

ooooo

Bobby greets them at the door with a hug and a clap on the back. "Happy birthday, Sam," he drawls and Sam suddenly feels like crying because aside from Dean, Bobby is his closest link he has left to Dad. And despite what Sam tried to do to him (_not him, it was Meg, not really him_) Bobby welcomes him with open arms.

Dean puts a hand on Sam's back and guides him inside with a grin. "Come on birthday girl, let's see who's here."

It turns out, a lot of people. Missouri's sitting on a couch giving Rumsfeld the evil eye, but she beams with joy when she sees Sam. "Good Lord boy, don't you ever stop growin?" she wonders, and reaches for him. Sam falls into the seat next to her and lets her hug him. "Happy Birthday Sam. It was a good day the day your were born, and it's a good day today," she says. "It's been far too long."

"Yes ma'am," Sam says, and Missouri waves the word away.

"Don't you dare _ma'am_ me," she says. "You hear me?"

Sam nods, grinning. Missouri leans close, her mouth next to Sam's ear. "I know your Daddy ain't here, but believe me, Sam. That man is proud of you. He is."

Sam nods again, but his smile slips and he wipes surreptiously at one eye. Rebecca and Zach are there too--thanks to Dean--full of good wishes and hugs. Later, they fill Sam in on how a certain Agent Henrickson has come around asking about him and Dean.

Ash is there with a case of PBR. "I got something for you," he tells Sam and hands him an envelope. Sam recognizes Ellen's handwriting and his stomach lurches. "She wanted to come, but it's a little too soon," Ash says. Sam understands. He's thought of Ellen or Jo every day since...since Dean told him what happened. But he doesn't know how to face them. And it hurts because sometimes Ellen felt like a mom. Not his Mom, but _a_ Mom. One who could still care about him. And he ruined it. He ruined everything.

Suddenly Dean's at his side, steering him toward the porch. "Come on, Sparky." They take a seat on the front steps. "So do you want to duck out of here or what?"

Sam shrugs and his shoulder brushes Dean's. "We could stay a little longer."

"Sounds good to me," Dean says and thrusts a plastic bag at Sam. "Happy Birthday. And please note the fine wrapping."

Sam stares at the bag a minute, then grins. "Impressive." He pokes the bag. "Just how scared should I be? Because if this is more clown porn I'm going to kick your ass."

"Dude, everybody knows clown porn is for Christmas. You're pretty safe with this."

Sam peers into the bag, looks back at Dean, then back into the bag. He pulls out a leather journal with a hand-tooled pattern around the edges.

"You're always doing all that research, you know? I thought it was about time you had someplace to put it, besides Dad's journal. Now you can fill up your own."

Sam flips the cover open and there, taped to the inside cover is a familiar photo of Mary and John. "I know your copy burned up when...Jess died," Dean says, his voice hoarse. "But I found the negative in that stuff Jenny gave us."

Sam stares down at the photo for a long time, then he lifts his eyes to Dean's. "Thank you. Not just for this. For everything."

Dean smiles easily. "You're welcome."

They sit together on the porch watching the fireflies dance like shooting stars until Missouri calls them back. "You boys tryin' to catch your death out here?"

"Come on," Dean protests, "it's May."

"Don't give me no sass," she glowers. "If you give me sass, you are not getting a piece of birthday cake, Dean Winchester."

Dean jumps to his feet, pulling at Sam's sleeve. "You heard the lady."

Sam follows him (_he always will_), the blank journal tucked tightly beneath his arm, smiling to himself.

End.


End file.
